


Mr & Mr Grimes

by HigherMagic



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Assassin Rick Grimes, Attempted Murder, Blow Jobs, Boredom, Fights, Frottage, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Married Couple, Married Life, Murder, Rickyl Writers' Group, Spy Daryl Dixon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 05:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10655730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Rick Grimes and Daryl Dixon are an ordinary suburban couple with an ordinary, lifeless suburban marriage. But each of them has a secret – they are actually both legendary assassins working for competing organizations. When the truth comes out, Rick and Daryl end up each other’s targets.





	Mr & Mr Grimes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenalunera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenalunera/gifts).



> Hey it's the Mr & Mrs Smith no one asked for! Inspired by Solene's [wonderful edit](http://richardsdaryl.tumblr.com/post/132566935547/rickyl-au-mr-and-mrs-smith-inspired-rick-and).
> 
> So there's like a scosche of implied infidelity (they don't actually do the thing but they mention it) and divorce. Also it kind of turned out sadder in the middle than I meant it to. Anyway, enjoy!

"I mean, it's not like I don't still _love_ him, or anything."

Daryl huffed, staring morosely down at his half-empty whiskey glass. Rick didn't like him going out and drinking alone, but Rick could go fuck himself as far as Daryl was concerned. Then at least _one_ of them would be getting some Goddamn action.

Beside him, his best friend Carol – the only one in Daryl's life who knew about his actual means of employment – let out a sympathetic hum and patted him reassuringly on the forearm. "This is what happens to marriages, Pookie," she said, and Daryl sent her a half-hearted glare out of the corner of his eye because if this was her trying to give him a pep talk, she fucking sucked at it. "You first meet, it's all sex and breakfast in bed and honeymoon butterflies. Then when that all goes away you have to figure out if you want to spend the rest of your life with that doughy, lazy crap you married."

Daryl, at least, found some humor in that. "Rick is _not_ doughy," he replied with a roll of his eyes. Truthfully Rick hadn't gained or lost any weight in the seven years they've been married. He's always been fit, muscled even though he's not as big as Daryl in the shoulders. He can hold his own in a fair fight, though – he must wrestle with his friend Shane or something because he knows Rick doesn't go to the gym but he's caught them just finishing up a sparring session in their yard on more than one occasion.

"Fine," Carol said. " _I_ married a doughy, lazy piece of crap. You married a tall hottie with an ass that won't quit and eyes bluer than an ocean sunrise. So stop your bitching because I definitely think I have more to complain about than you do."

Daryl rolled his eyes again, before he returned to staring at his drink. "We haven't fucked in six months," he muttered, downing the glass with a wince.

He heard Carol's soft, disbelieving gasp, and when he looked at her, her eyes were wide. "I'm sorry…did you say six _months_?" she repeated. "Oh my God – hey! Aaron! _Please_ pour Daryl here another drink."

Their favorite bartender slid up to them, an open bottle of Daryl's favorite whiskey already in hand. He poured him a drink and Daryl raised his glass in a salute before he downed it again. "Man troubles?" Aaron asked. He was a civilian but he was their favorite because he was pretty and friendly and was the perfect kind of person to bitch to after a long day. He seemed to delight in offering advice and sympathy. If Daryl remembered correctly he thought Aaron might have mentioned once going to school to become a counsellor for teenagers.

"You remember Daryl's husband Rick, right?" Carol asked with an overly-toothy smile. Aaron's eyes lit up and he smirked. They all remembered the first time they'd met Rick when Daryl had returned from one of his 'trips' with that particular man – and the way Rick had barely been able to keep his hands off Daryl, practically mounting him on this very bar stool just before last call. "Well _apparently_ even that wildfire can be put out."

Aaron blinked, before he set his sympathetic gaze on Daryl. "How long's it been?" he asked.

"Six months," Daryl replied with a complaining huff. Not that he had really been in the mood to do anything more than a quick hand job by himself in the shower most mornings. It wasn't that he didn't love Rick – really, he did – it was just that…

Everything was so _lackluster_. Daryl had an exciting job. He went out and caught bad guys and got into gunfights and ran the risk of not coming back at all about twice a week. He wanted his home life to be the same – less death, maybe – but he didn't find the idea of watching the same three shows on Netflix and _cuddling_ all the damn time very exciting.

He and Rick were fighting a lot. Over stupid things he knew neither of them gave a shit about. Sometimes, when he had time to really sit and think about it in the aftermath of those fights where one of them ended up on the couch or staying at a friend's, he thought they might just be starting fights just to have _something_ to talk about.

Which wasn't healthy. Daryl had considered going to something a little more inclusive and professional than a bar on a Tuesday night with Carol, but he didn't even like the idea of _marriage counselling._ Ugh, talking to a total stranger about how he didn't feel happy with his husband anymore for two hundred bucks a pop didn't sound like fun.

Aaron gave a low whistle, startling him out of his thoughts. "Six months, huh?" he said with a wince of sympathy. Daryl nodded and Aaron filled up his glass one more time. "'Cause of him, or?"

Daryl shrugged one shoulder. "Kinda both," he said. After all, as bored as he was in his life, he tended to react to that by going out more and staying home less. He was taking more jobs just for an excuse to be out of the house but it wasn't out of any kind of restlessness more than a need to _not be there_. Rick, though – Rick got restless. He got jittery. He'd start shit just to have shit to focus on. He'd taken it upon himself to remodel the attic and most nights he came to bed sweaty and exhausted and way too tired to do more than cuddle, and sometimes he didn't even make it to the bed.

And with Daryl gone so often, it was no wonder they didn't have time for each other anymore. Daryl let out a quiet, defeated noise and rested his forehead on the bar.

"My marriage is over," he groaned.

"C'mon, Pookie, that's enough outta you," Carol said. She stood and hauled Daryl upright before reaching into his pocket and pulling out some money to cover his tab and a tip for Aaron. "Let's go. C'mon."

"Carol, why do the good, hot, gay ones always come out _boring_?" Daryl demanded. He wasn't drunk enough that he couldn't walk on his own but he was definitely feeling the buzz rushing to his head and the arm around Carol's shoulders was more than just show.

Carol grunted. "If it's any consolation, the straight ones aren't much better," she said. Daryl huffed a laugh, leaning against the door of her car as she shoved him against it so that she could grab her keys.

He rolled his head to one side to squint at her, awkwardly propped against the door behind the driver's. "You good enough to drive?" he asked, blinking slowly when she straightened up and fixed him with what he could only describe as her 'mom' look.

"Good enough to take your sorry ass home. Now get in," she ordered, and Daryl rolled his eyes and fumbled at the door handle until the car opened with a squeak. He clambered inside and sprawled out along her backseat, giving an appreciative hum at the feel of the leather underneath it. Carol got in the driver seat and started the car and it peeled away from the curb with a smooth rumble.

Daryl was sure he didn't fall asleep but between one blink and the next he was at his house and Carol was getting out of the car and helping him out of it as well. He slumped over her as she hauled him up to the front door, deceptively strong as she had to be in their line of work.

"Where are your keys?" she muttered, pawing at his pockets.

"Careful, that's the most action I've gotten in a while," he said, earning him a pinch to the side. "Ow! Shit. I dunno. There's one under the pot there." He nudged at it with the toe of his boot – a little cactus that they'd gotten when they'd bought the house. It reminded Daryl of the one that had been sitting outside their hotel in Arizona when they'd gotten hitched. Daryl had still been pretty sore that night from taking a good hit to the chest from a fight. He'd explained it away as a construction accident, which is what he told Rick he did to cover up the scrapes and bruises he regularly came home with. Maybe Rick was that dumb or maybe he had never cared that much, but he bought it.

Carol was muttering about how the Hell she was supposed to keep him upright _and_ grab the key when the overhead light flicked on and the door opened slowly. Daryl squinted at the light over him, then at the soft, yellowy glow of their living room light as the door opened to reveal Rick.

He was shirtless, sleep pants slung low across his hips. His hair was messy and curly, not brushed into straight submission, and there was a deep shadow of stubble on his face. His eyes were narrowed from sleepiness but shone brightly in the light – or maybe they were narrowed because he was pissed at Daryl for waking him up, drunk on his doorstep at four on a Wednesday morning.

"Carol?" he rumbled, rubbing at one eye blearily. Daryl's eyes raked over him as Carol straightened up. _God_ , he was fucking gorgeous, and all sleepy and vulnerable like a feast just laid out for Daryl to take. He licked his lips and fell against Rick's chest as Carol deposited him ungracefully against the other man, dusting her hands off.

"He's officially your problem now," Carol said with a grin. "Nice seeing ya, Rick!"

Then she was leaving but Daryl didn't care because he had his nose buried in Rick's neck, forehead scraping against his stubble as he nuzzled against his husband's warm, dry skin. It was warm in the house which explained Rick's lack of clothing, and Daryl was burning up too from the alcohol and the sight of his gorgeous husband all bare like this.

"How much have you had?" Rick asked lowly, his neck and chest rumbling with his words as he closed and locked the door.

Daryl hummed but didn't care enough to answer. He opened his mouth and sucked on Rick's neck, dragging his nails down Rick's chest. "Didja miss me?" he asked, laughing before he could even get the words out. He leaned back to see Rick's face and saw the other man frowning at him, probably still too sleepy to really be thinking straight. But that was alright. Daryl wasn't exactly thinking straight either.

"Daryl, it's late," Rick complained when Daryl leaned in to nuzzle at his neck again. He pushed at Daryl's chest and Daryl let go with a huff. "Come to bed," Rick coaxed, lacing his fingers through Daryl's, and it was nice and felt comfortable and intimate but it wasn't what Daryl _wanted_ , damn it. When they'd first met, Rick had fucked him on every available surface in their resort and then let Daryl turn around and return the damn favor.

Daryl let out a complaining huff. "'M not tired," he said, pulling Rick close to him again and Rick stumbled, colliding with Daryl's chest. Daryl smiled and rested his free hand on Rick's exposed hip, his thumb dipping into the little hint of the 'v' in the center of his abdomen where Daryl knew Rick was sensitive.

Rick, predictably, let out a shiver, biting his lower lip. Daryl felt a little surge of victory when he saw goose bumps break out along Rick's arms, but then Rick was drawing back, away from his touch, and shook his head.

"I have to be up early in the morning," he said, running a hand through his hair. "I gotta get some sleep. Come to bed when you're ready."

Daryl nodded, too uncoordinated to chase him and too irritated to speak. He turned instead and went to their dining room, rummaging through the liquor cabinet until he found the same whiskey he was drinking at the bar, kept in the back because he was the only one who drank it and never mixed it with anything. He took a shot straight from the bottle, gasping as it burned its way down his throat, before he set it down on the table with a low growl.

Fuck it, if his husband wasn't going to stay up for him there was always late-night Skinemax. Or whatever the gay version of that was. Daryl was sure the four hundred million channels their ridiculous TV got could provide.

He sat down on the couch and picked up the remote, scrolling through the channels as they got to the 900s. He sighed and closed his eyes after another moment, before turning the TV off and flopping down onto his side on the couch.

He was asleep in minutes.

 

 

Daryl was roused by a chime from his phone. Groaning and wincing as his head started to ache sharply at the front of his forehead, reminding him just how much he'd had to drink and how dehydrated he was, he got up, rubbing harshly at his eyes.

His phone chimed again, vibrating in his pocket, and he rolled over so that he could dig it out and flip it open.

 _NA_ , it read. New Assignment. All of his texts were coded until he opened his phone and put in a special second password to open it. He did do, flicking through the old ones until he reaches the newest texts which always sat at the bottom. When an assignment was completed, he deleted it.

 _New Assignment_ , it read. _Target: Philip Blake. Last known location: Woodbury, GA. Considered heavily armed and extremely dangerous. Attempt to take alive but kill if necessary. $200,000._ There was a file attached to it that opened to a picture and file of the man and Daryl winced at the small text, before he pocketed his phone and determined that he would bring it up on his computer. The assignment hadn't been sent to anyone else – those were labelled "NMA – New Mass Assignment", and were usually reserved for terrorists on home soil or something equally serious. Those assignments also tended to run upwards of seven figures.

He rolled back over on the couch and finally sat up, blinking when he was greeted with the sight of a small tray of food and a note. There was a glass of water, two doses of headache medication, as well as some crackers and a bowl of cereal with a separate bowl of milk at the side so that the cereal wouldn't get soggy. There was also two slices of toast with jelly smeared along the side of the plate.

Daryl smiled, overwhelmed with affection at the sight. Rick had always been good to him even when they were fighting – he was a lot less petty than Daryl was, even if he was just as stubborn. Their fights could last for days but Rick was always the one to offer the olive branch first because Daryl was too fucking proud.

He reached forward and picked up the note, unfolding it and reading his husband's scrawling handwriting;

_Daryl,_

_I'm sorry I had to leave so early without a proper goodbye. I'll be gone for the rest of the week – I should be back Monday if all goes well. I love you. Be safe._

_Rick._

"God, you're an asshole," he muttered to himself, folding the note back up and pouring the little dish of milk over the cereal. Rick knew his stomach wasn't exactly sensitive after a night of drinking but crackers and sugary cereal was the best way to make him feel better. He downed the water and meds halfway through his bowl before he started munching on the toast.

He should really try and make it up to Rick, too. So that at least they could both say they were putting in the effort. When Daryl had left last night Rick had been elbow-deep in paint buckets and sweaty from the heat of the attic and Daryl had just looked at him, assessed the situation and come to the conclusion that if he were to stay the evening would consist of him bored out of his mind on the couch until he decided he may as well sleep, with Rick crawling into bed after him two hours later, both of them too exhausted or too lethargic to do more than grumble at each other. And Daryl didn't like going to sleep first – he didn't like the idea that his civilian husband would be awake and the first line of defense for their house when Daryl was more than capable of wasting any son of a bitch who dared try and come at them.

If he had stayed last night, before Rick went off on one of his trips, maybe he could have done something more productive than watch Rick painting and working before saying 'Fuck it' and grabbing his coat.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth to get rid of the crumbs. Well, it was just as good that Rick was leaving. Daryl would likely be gone for the rest of the week, too. When he got back though – he vowed he would make more of an effort. He could be a good husband and try and find some way to be content with his work and his hope life being completely separate.

He _had_ to, because he loved Rick and Rick treated him way better than a guy like him deserved and even if he was just as unhappy he was still trying to make a Goddamn effort and that made him a way better person.

Decided, Daryl nodded to himself and finished his food before he cleared his plate. Then he pulled open his laptop so that he could study Blake's profile, and printed off the papers before he headed to his arsenal that he kept in the basement, away from Rick's prying eyes.

Daryl didn't like guns. He preferred silent weapons, his favorite being his crossbow that hung in a place of honor on the first wall you saw when walking into his private arsenal. He could access it by moving an old shelf full of unused VHS tapes and DVDs that were pretty much obsolete in the Blu-ray and Netflix world. Behind that shelf was a door that opened exclusively to his touch, right below the peephole.

He grabbed his crossbow and his sniper, as well as his collection of knives. He preferred the kinds of missions where he slipped in and out, a knife to the throat and gone again, easy as anything. He didn't want to get into gunfights and he _certainly_ didn't want to risk the lives of innocent civilians. The fact that they'd sent him Blake's case meant that they wanted him dead, despite the assignment's suggestion of bringing him in alive. Daryl didn't bring people in alive.

As he walked out of his arsenal, bag in tow, he got a call from Carol. He swiped to accept it, shouldering his bag with a grunt. "Hey," he greeted. He left the bag of weapons by the bottom of the stairs and headed up to their bedroom to grab his go bag.

"Morning, Pookie! How's your head?"

"S'alright," Daryl said. Rick used to be a cop and he'd gotten shot in the line of duty before he and Daryl had met – his wound still acted up and he had the best pain meds _ever_ and Daryl knew one of those pills had been one of them. Because Rick was sweet and kind of an enabler like that. It wouldn't make him high or cloud his vision or anything but it definitely wasn't going to let him suffer anything as small as a hangover. "You get home okay?"

"Obviously," Carol replied. Daryl could hear her rolling her eyes. "Sent an N.A. out to you this morning. You get it?"

"Was about to leave," Daryl said. He grabbed his go bag from under the bed and carried it downstairs. It had three changes of clothes in it, one of them formal in case he had to worm his way anywhere fancy, the only pistol he owned which he had had to use once or twice in his entire career, and enough fake passports and money to get him anywhere. The file claimed that Blake was in Georgia but Woodbury was close to Atlanta, which meant an airport, and who knew how flighty the guy was.

Daryl mentally scanned over what he'd read as he grabbed the papers and slid them into the front of his go bag. Blake had run a sex trafficking ring out of Woodbury for years before graduating to the drugs and arms business. Problem was he was good at it, which meant he was becoming a big enough problem for Daryl's organization to need to deal with it.

"Well, good luck," Carol said brightly. "Call me when you're down there."

Daryl hung up and slid his phone into his bag, before he grabbed his weapons bag and headed for their garage. Rick drove a nice car but Daryl owned his motorcycle that he'd lovingly restored and worked on until it was an absolute beast. He laid his bags across the widened backseat and strapped them down before he mounted the bike and pressed the switch on his keys that would open the garage door.

Woodbury was about a four hour drive with no traffic, and given that it was rush hour on a Wednesday, Daryl was prepared to meet some pretty heavy shit. That was another reason he liked riding his bike – if he was feeling particularly impatient he could ride the median or the drive-off zone through most of it. What were cops gonna do, honk at him? Even if they could catch a motorcycle, they wouldn't be able to get out of traffic to try.

Although the thought of a high-speed car chase was certainly a pleasant one.

At around ten in the morning he got a text from Rick – his music interrupted briefly to make the little chime tone. He pulled off onto a rest area and pulled off his helmet, wiping his sweaty hair back from his face before he took his phone out to open his texts.

_Hey baby. Just arrived. How's your head?_

Daryl frowned. Come to think of it, he didn't stop to think when Rick left, or where he might have gone. Rick's job took him all over the place since he'd retired from being a cop and truthfully Daryl didn't like bringing it up because if he asked too many questions about Rick's 'trips' then Rick might start getting inclined to ask Daryl about _his_ , and then of course everything would fall apart.

He bit the finger of his glove so that he could pull it off and text back; _Good thanks to you. Where did you go this time?_

He bit his lip, thumb hovering over the 'Send' button. That might sound too passive aggressive. He deleted the message and wrote instead; _All good thanks to you. Thank you. Sorry about last night._

The reply came quickly; _You'd been drinking. I understand. I love you and I'll see you on Monday if you're in town._

 _I will be,_ Daryl typed back. _Love you too. See you then._

He sighed and turned his music back on before worming his head back into his helmet. With no air getting in and only the baseline of his music to keep him company, it was easy not to think about too much as he merged back into traffic.

 

 

Daryl was poised on the building opposite where Blake had been last sighted. He knew enough about bad guys to recognize their patterns and see the marks of their presence in the streets of a town and around certain buildings. Blake was definitely here.

He laid low to the ground, his sniper angled so that his scope was pointing at the door so he could see. There were two suits standing on either side of the door, apparently nonchalant, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses despite the overcast day.

He had been chasing Blake for almost two days at this point and it was starting to get frustrating. The man wasn't even trying to be elusive, it just seemed like as soon as Daryl got there, there was someone else already ahead of him, spooking Blake and making him move before Daryl could get a good way in. So he'd decided this would be the best thing to do – camp out in front of his home base and just wait. Daryl could be patient when he put his mind to it, especially if it meant that if he finished early he could go home and definitely be there when Rick showed up. And this promised to be a clean kill, which meant he didn't have to worry about hiding laundry or wounds when and if his husband decided to pay him any attention.

He sighed through his teeth and forced his thoughts away from Rick. It wouldn't do any good to be this distracted – if his mark blew town and it was all because Daryl couldn't stop thinking with his dick for two fucking seconds then he'd be out of it for good.

Daryl's eyes narrowed as he saw a long black car pull up in front of the house. One of the suited men came forward and opened the door and two men got out of the car. One of them was definitely Blake – he'd recognize the man's slicked brown hair and eyepatch anywhere. The second man, though, Daryl didn't recognize, although he could have sworn he looked familiar.

The second man straightened up fully and Daryl's eyes widened. He lifted his head to look with his own eyes as though the scope had the ability to alter the reality of what his eyes were seeing. "Son of a _bitch_ ," he whispered, taking his hand away from the trigger of the sniper because it was shaking so hard he feared firing off without warning.

He took an unsteady breath and lowered his head, following the movements of the two men with his scope. Of course, it had been a long time since he'd seen those shoulders in anything thicker than old t-shirts, or completely bare, but how could he not recognize the width of them, the way they moved as the man followed Blake up the stairs and into his house? How could he not remember the slight curl of his hair at the nape of his neck, where not even an hour of brushing it could make it go completely straight?

He'd shaved his beard off, making him look almost five years younger, and his face was moving differently as though he was trying to break in a mask, but it was _Rick_. Daryl's boring, lackluster, cuddly husband _Rick_ was having a fucking drink with one of the most dangerous arms dealers in the Southeast.

Daryl's mind was racing as he followed the movements of the men. The door closed and he let out a curse but found them again soon enough in a second-story window. Blake was smiling, gesturing grandly as though showing off his room to Rick, who replied with a smile of his own that made something possessive and ugly curl up in Daryl's chest.

He stifled a low growl, his hands returning to the sniper as he watched. "Fucking _dare_ you to touch him, you fucking ass," he said, and he wasn't sure if he was directing the comment to Rick or Blake. Blake poured Rick a drink and handed it to him, raising his own in a toast.

Rick stepped close to Blake, a hand on his arm, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. Daryl snarled, his vision going red at the edges when he saw Blake smirk, but then Rick was moving away. Daryl knew this game – Rick had played it with him plenty of times. Rick could be commanding and powerful but he also played coy just as well. He could be the cat or the mouse, switching between each role easily as he read the room.

Had he been playing Daryl all this time, just the same way? Did he _know_ …?

Of course, Daryl hadn't known. Daryl didn't know Rick was doing…whatever the fuck he was doing. What was he doing? Was he a spy too? Was he a dangerous man? Or did he just like a little side action and wasn't too picky on who he got it from?

Daryl's head was burning with anger and jealousy and he wasn't even sure what to do at this point. His training and his assignment told him he should take out Blake's men and sneak inside and try and subdue the man himself, but his _husband_ was in there and Daryl didn't have enough time or planning to risk regrouping or changing his tactics.

He watched Blake approached Rick this time, a smile that he supposed was meant to be flirtatious on his face, and touch Rick's smooth jaw, fingers trailing down his chest, and Daryl saw red. "Fuck _this_ ," he said, because it didn't matter if his husband was cheating, or if he was a spy, or if he was a Goddamn drug dealer himself. _No one_ was going to touch him right in fucking front of him without getting a bullet in their head.

Which is exactly what happened. Daryl took aim, let out his breath, and pulled the trigger. The sniper was quiet, piercing the glass in Blake's window and burying itself in his skull with less sound that the chirp of a bird. Rick startled, drawing back as Blake fell to the floor, mouth open and eye wide in surprise.

Rick set his drink down and eyed the body distastefully for a moment, nudging it with his boot, before he looked up and it seemed like he found Daryl instantly. He couldn't possibly know it was Daryl, they were too far away. Without a moment of hesitation Rick reached into the back of his suit jacket and pulled out his pistol – it was a pistol Daryl had seen before. It was heavy, a revolver, the kind he claimed he used to use on the force even though Daryl knew policemen didn't get that kind of gun standard.

He fired and Daryl cursed, ducking down as the bullet clipped the bricks just below him. The gunshot was loud enough to alert the suits and Daryl heard a shout. He lifted his head just enough to see over the edge of the roof section he'd been sprawled on, in time to see the first of the men burst into Blake's room with a shout.

He saw Rick shift smoothly into a fighting stance, taking the first man out by grabbing the punch that was aimed for him. He twisted, bringing the man's elbow down the wrong way on his shoulder. Daryl winced in sympathy. Then Rick used his new human shield as an absorber for the gunshots being leveled his way. He ducked and turned around, firing and killing the other three men, before he let the one with the broken arm drop and sank another bullet into his head.

Rick looked back through the window, straight towards Daryl, his eyes narrowed. Then he left the room, reloading as he went. Daryl let out a soft 'Fuck' and ducked down, hastily dismantling the sniper rifle and packing it away so he could flee.

If he had any doubt that Rick was just as dangerous as he was, it was all gone. He'd just taken out four men without breaking a sweat, without flinching. How long had he been doing this? How the fuck had Daryl not seen the signs. Had he just been willing to be blissfully ignorant, or had he been so caught up in his own unhappiness and dissatisfaction with the apparent 'boredom' of his home life that he had simply ignored the signs that Rick might be feeling the same way?

He shoved his way out onto the main street. It was sparsely populated and Daryl cursed, ducking his head down as he saw Rick leaving Blake's building. He went around a corner swiftly. His bike was parked in a garage a few blocks away and if he could just _get there_ then he'd flee the fuck back to their house and then he'd have a few days to plan and get his shit together because Rick said he'd be back Monday which meant even with the mission over he wouldn't risk coming home early and having Daryl asking him too many questions.

He rounded a corner into an alley and stopped when he heard the hammer of a gun being cocked back. "Turn around," Rick said, his voice low and commanding like Daryl hadn't heard in a long, _long_ time. He closed his eyes and lifted his hands above his head, before he turned slowly.

Rick blinked, his eyes widening when they met Daryl's. "What…?" His gun wavered, lowering back to his side and Daryl saw the confusion sweeping over his face, undoubtedly asking himself the same questions Daryl had been. He lowered his arms and Rick pressed his lips together. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he demanded.

Daryl shook his head. "You let him touch you," he said, figuring it would give away all that he needed to. Rick blinked and nodded again, and Daryl was at least a little relieved to see the disgust flashing in his eyes at the thought. "You let him do anything else to you?"

Rick shook his head, an appalled expression settling on his face. " _No_ ," he spat. "I've never – not since you."

Daryl nodded. Then his eyes shifted over Rick's shoulder as he saw a shadow move across the mouth of the alley. We got company," he said, and Rick whirled around, lifting his gun in readiness. He stood in front of Daryl, though whether that was out of instinct or anything else Daryl couldn't say. He felt like he was meeting Rick for the first time all over again and nothing made sense and nothing was clear. Daryl himself only had his knives since a crossbow stood out a little too much and his sniper was disassembled and in its case.

"Go back that way," Rick said, jerking his head. He backed up until he hit Daryl's chest and Daryl grumbled but obeyed. "I'll take care of 'em. You get outta here."

"Fuck you," Daryl replied. He could hear people moving on the other side of the alley and like fuck was he going to just leave Rick behind and run off like a damn civilian. "Don't know if you noticed but this ain't exactly all foreign to me."

"Damn it, Daryl," Rick snapped. The shadows around the end of the alley were starting to cluster together and Daryl's eyes narrowed as they started to come towards them. Rick's gun was a six-shooter and then he'd need to reload. "Why's everything gotta be a Goddamn _fight_ with you?"

"Why you gotta be such a pussy all the time?" Daryl snapped back, and then the shadows started to form the shapes of men and Daryl saw one of them grab for his gun, a shouted 'This way!' signaling that they were about to be hunted. Rick still wasn't firing, and Daryl let out a low snarl. He grabbed one of his knives and threw it, planting it into the skull of the lead man.

"Damn it," Rick hissed, and he grabbed Daryl's shirt and hauled him to crouch behind a dumpster as the first men went down and the rest started to open fire. Rick looked at him with a raised eyebrow, unimpressed. "Happy?"

"At least I made something happen," Daryl snapped. He leaned out and threw another knife, catching a guy in the chest as he went down. "Better than you, playin' all nice and having drinks with the enemy 'til I gotta go in and get shit down."

"I had _intended_ to poison him," Rick said icily. "I like to do things clean."

"Uh huh," Daryl muttered. A bullet ricocheted off the wall above them and they ducked with a hiss, and Rick, finally forced to, leaned out and fired his weapon once. A man let out a cry and Daryl used Rick's body as a cover to throw another knife, felling another. They were still shooting but soon they'd run out and have to reload and then Rick and Daryl could make their move. "So anythin' else you wanna tell me? Were you ever really a cop?"

" _Yes_ ," Rick said, leaning out and firing again. "Couldn't be one anymore after I got shot. So I got a desk job and worked my way up from there. So, construction?"

"Easier to explain than 'Got into a fistfight with the Russian mob'," Daryl said. At that, Rick huffed a laugh, although it was hard and angry. "How long?"

"Years," Rick replied. "Over a decade. You?"

"Since I was eighteen," Daryl said. A little shy of ten years. It occurred to him that if Rick was as accomplished and proficient a spy as Daryl was starting to think he was, then he could probably figure out a lot more about him. Especially if the agencies they worked for had once been associates."

The gunfire abruptly went silent and Daryl grabbed Rick's suit jacket. "Let's go," he said. Rick nodded, knowing they didn't have time to argue, and they both flew out from behind the dumpster, crouched low. They had almost three seconds of reprieve before the gunfire started up again but they were almost to the end of the alley. Rick rounded a corner and Daryl dove after him.

There was another man at the other end and he lifted his weapon and fired before Rick got a hold of him, slamming his knee up into the man's chest to wind him and then snapping his wrist with a sharp twist. Then he slammed his elbow into the man's face and kicked him down. He fell like a sack of bricks and didn't get back up.

Daryl leaned back, gasping hard and clutching at his arm. The guy's bullet had hit him, just shy of his chest muscle, and lodged itself into his shoulder. He could feel the exit wound just under his shoulder blade and when he fell against the wall the brick got wet and smeared with his blood.

"Daryl!" Rick shouted, rushing to him. He cupped Daryl's face and pressed his hand tightly over the wound. "C'mon baby, you're fine. You're gonna be just fine. Get up," he said, a strange mix of worry and impatience in his voice. Daryl understood – he didn't work with a partner for the very reason that he didn't have the patience to nurse them back to health should they get their sorry asses injured.

At least he could walk, and if he could walk that meant he could run. He shook his head so that Rick's hand moved away and forced himself upright. Rick smiled at him, before he took his suit jacket off and wadded it up, holding it against Daryl's shoulder. "Keep pressure there. My car's nearby. Let's go."

Daryl nodded, in too much pain to argue, and he allowed Rick to lead him down the street and to his car. He was aware that people might be following them so they moved as quickly as they could. Rick's car was parked on the street and they hauled themselves inside, peeling away from the curb as quickly as possible.

Daryl sank back against the seat with a low sigh. His shoulder hurt like a bitch and he was starting to sweat. "'M goin' into shock," he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Rick let out a low, annoyed sound. "I have some of your blood at the house," he said. "You'll be fine."

Daryl raised an eyebrow and glared at his husband. "How the _fuck_ did you manage to get _any_ of my blood?" he demanded.

"Sometimes I'd take it when you were drunk and wouldn't wake up. Sometimes I put something in your drink," Rick replied, a little too cavalier in Daryl's damn opinion. "Nothing too bad, just to make sure you wouldn't unhook anything or wake up while I did it." Rick's eyes flashed to him and he bit his lower lip. "I thought…I thought you were civilian. If someone raided our house and you got injured, I wanted to be prepared for anything."

Well, at least that Daryl could understand. "So you're a Goddamn spy," he said, letting his head roll back against the seat. "Of fucking course you are. All the signs were there."

"And for you," Rick said, frowning. "I suspected. But I didn't know how to even _ask_ that kind of question, you know? But you were always gone for a long time and you came back injured so often. At first I thought you were just getting into fights and then staying at Carol's because…for whatever reason."

Daryl turned his head to look at Rick, taking in the tension in his jaw, the furrow in his brow. His hair was all messy again from the fight, he looked wonderfully disheveled. Daryl liked him like this.

"Did you think I was cheating on you?" he asked. Rick looked at him, before turning his attention back to the road.

Rick shook his head but it was a hesitant thing. "At first, maybe. But then I didn't think that. I trusted you. And you kept coming back to me so a part of me figured that, even if you were, it didn't matter." He took in a soft, shaky breath.

Daryl bit his lower lip, squeezing the makeshift pad on his shoulder to give himself something to focus on that wasn't the rolling mess of emotion and thoughts sitting in his chest. He thought back to the sight of Rick fighting, to how effortlessly and easily he'd put all those men down, and heaved a breath.

"You're a good fighter," he said. "Is Shane a spy too?"

Rick shook his head. "He's a civilian. But he knows – about what I am, what I do. We used to be partners before I got shot."

Daryl's eyes narrowed. "Partners as in…?"

Rick's mouth quirked up in a smirk and he sent Daryl a sideways look. "He's straight," he said. "Married to his wife goin' on fifteen years now." Daryl nodded, trying to force that angry, jealous knot in his throat to go away but it _wouldn't go away_. Daryl hadn't gotten any attention from his husband for _six months_ and here he was finding out Rick was going out and flirting with every Dirty Tom, Dick and Harry with a gun on their belt and a warrant to their name.

"Would you have ever told me?" Daryl asked.

"Would you?" Rick countered.

"If you'd asked me, maybe."

"That's a lie," Rick said with a shake of his head. He was frowning again. "You wouldn't have told me. You like fighting with me now. How long have you been unhappy?" Daryl winced, biting his lower lip, and looked away. "I don't understand. I thought…I thought you wanted what we had. I don't _like_ my job, Daryl – sometimes I hate it, because it takes me away from you and makes me do things I don't wanna do. But it's my job and someone's gotta do it."

"I _know_ that," Daryl hissed. "But your way fuckin' sucks, frankly. I sniped Blake without worryin' about drinking with him or _touching_ him and you…. Why the _fuck_ do you do that?"

"Because that's what has always worked," Rick snapped. His knuckles went white on the steering wheel for a brief moment and he let out a hard breath. "It's _always_ worked. It's the only thing I know still does work, and I ain't as good a shot as you. I can fight and I can fuck and that's all I'm good for, isn't it?"

The words came out bitter and quiet and Daryl swallowed, too weak and in too much pain to come up with anything good to say. He forced his arm to move, to rest his bloody palm against Rick's thigh. Rick looked down at it but didn't move his hands from white-knuckling the steering wheel.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I'm sorry I let it get this bad."

Rick pressed his lips together and didn't say anything else. Daryl felt weak and dizzy with blood loss and he closed his eyes, sure that at least Rick wouldn't let him pass out and bleed out. Rick always took care of him and Daryl trusted that he would continue to do so, even with all this new, exposed truth between them.

 

 

Daryl woke with an IV in his arm, sprawled out over their couch. He groaned, wincing when his shoulder flared up in pain, and winced when he heard his phone chiming. He opened it and swiped that the Blake case had been completed, content with the promise of $200,000 into his account by the next morning. Then he opened his texts to find a new assignment.

  1. _New Assignment. Rick Grimes, head assassin of Saviors Network. $750,000._ Daryl's eyes widened and he sat up, ripping the IV from his arm. There it was – Rick's picture, his home address. _Their home address_.



It wasn't an NMA, which meant this had been sent to Daryl specifically. Which meant that someone knew Rick had been there when Blake had been brought down and might have compromised the assignment. Which meant that Daryl had just revealed that he _had_ been there, and his own organization might know that Daryl could have seen him, which is why they'd assigned it to him specifically.

He heard Rick's phone go off in the other room and looked up, body tense, heart racing. Before, Rick's text messages at irregular hours and random intervals had never bothered him but now he knew the _truth_ , and he knew that just as his phone had been an assignment, Rick's could be one as well.

It could be _him_.

He pocketed his phone and looked up as he heard the front door open and saw Rick coming in with the bags from his bike. He lifted one and offered a small smile. "Got your stuff," he said, setting it down by the stairs. "Figured we shouldn't just leave it. Your bike's in the garage too."

Daryl swallowed hard and got up. His arm had been bandaged and Rick had removed his shirt to dress the wound. It ached and stung like a bitch but it had been a clean shot and didn't seem to have hit anything important. He let Rick close the door and then slid up against him, wrapping his arms tight around Rick's chest.

Rick hugged him back, his face buried in Daryl's hair. "I'm glad you're okay," he whispered, and Daryl closed his eyes tightly.

"Kiss me," he said quietly, drawing back so that he could meet Rick's eyes. Rick's gaze dropped to his mouth. "Please?"

Rick smiled, nodding, and leaned in to steal Daryl's mouth in a kiss. Daryl let out a soft sigh, his mind a whirl and his hands trembling when he ran them up Rick's arms, into his hair to tighten his grip. He could snap his neck like this, just a quick jerk and it would be done. Or he could grab one of the knives from his go bag, or the pistol, and take him out before Rick had a chance to grab a weapon.

But each time he thought about it his body rebelled against him like he was forcing it to drown. He gasped when Rick grabbed him, big hands landing warm and spread out on Daryl's bare skin. It was a touch Daryl had been craving for _months_ but now it felt sour and wrong. Daryl let out a quiet moan when Rick rumbled quietly, pulling Daryl closer to him.

Daryl went tense when he heard Rick's phone chime again, reminding him of his new message, and Rick withdrew with an apologetic look. "I have to get that," he said, and his hands left Daryl's sides and Daryl bit his lower lip to stop himself whining.

As soon as Rick was out of sight he went to his weapons back and pulled out his knives, his gun, his crossbow and his sniper rifle. He couldn't hear Rick moving but knew he was reading his phone and didn't know what would be worse – reading Daryl's name, or not reading it and coming back to find Daryl armed to the teeth and ready for him.

After a moment, he heard Rick's voice. "…Daryl?" He closed his eyes and shook his head, gritting his teeth as he readied his crossbow. His shoulder ached with the strain of loading it and then bracing it there but he forced himself through it. It was because of Rick he got shot in the first Goddamn place. And Rick worked for the Saviors, which meant he was the enemy. "Daryl, where are you?"

"What's the price?" Daryl called. Because he knew. He _knew_ it had been his name. It was the only way that made sense for this to go. How it hadn't happened sooner, he would never know. He thought back to all the times he had felt one step behind another spy even though he'd been the only one to receive an assignment. He thought back to all the times he had felt tracked or followed while out in the field. How many times had he and Rick crossed paths without even knowing it?

"Daryl -."

" _What the price,_ Rick?" Daryl demanded. He was a better shot than Rick. If he didn't let Rick get close then he'd win.

After a moment, Rick sighed. "Seven-fifty."

Daryl huffed. "Same for you," he said, sliding his knives into the various pockets and the belt loop on his jeans.

"At least they're consistent," Rick said. Daryl strained to hear any signs of him moving but he couldn't find any. Of course, with all the damn fixing up Rick had done Daryl wouldn't be surprised if nothing in this damn place creaked or moved. Either Rick wasn't moving, which was unlikely, or he was being so quiet even Daryl couldn't hear him.

"So," Daryl said, hoping to hear Rick's location if he kept the man talking, "you work for the Saviors."

"And you work for the Kingdom," Rick replied. He sounded like he was in the kitchen still. Daryl rolled away from his spot behind the stairs, towards the living room on the other side of the stairs and towards the kitchen. The kitchen was exposed to two different entrances.

He flinched back when a bullet shot past him, buried in the wall. Rick was using a silencer, the gunshot made little sound. Daryl growled and scrambled back, his shoulder burning with the effort, and crouched low behind the half-wall separating the hallway from the stairs leading to the basement.

"Technically I'm freelance," Daryl said.

"That must be nice," Rick replied. "I sold my soul years ago." There was a pause, something quiet and hurt in his voice when he spoke again; "I don't want to kill you, Daryl. But it's you or me, ain't it?"

Daryl swallowed hard enough his throat clicked. "Yeah," he said, because if they didn't do it, their organizations would find someone else who would.

"I don't want you to be unhappy," Rick said with another sigh. "I guess, one way or another, you won't be after this." Daryl ducked as he saw a shadow at the end of the hallway move and got out of the way just as another bullet fly by him and buried itself in the wall. He didn't run, but turned and aimed his crossbow and leaned back out. Rick was standing at the end of the hall and Daryl shot at him. He didn't look to see where his bolt went before he dove back out of sight.

He ran down the stairs to the basement and threw the shelf out of the way before slamming the door inside. He needed more weapons, _bigger_ guns, and even though he hated using them he had no doubt that Rick had his own secret stash somewhere that was capable of wiping Daryl out completely. He grabbed two shotguns and slung them over his shoulders. There was another pistol hidden in the fireplace, and a rifle in the closet by the door. After another moment of thought he grabbed the UMP-45 that he kept in a separate cabinet. The gun was heavy as he hefted it and he grabbed enough ammo for all of the guns he had, as well as more knives. He left the crossbow on the table.

He paused when he heard the floor creak above him. He licked his lips, taking in a breath, and then loaded the shotgun and aimed at the ceiling. He fired once, twice, dust and concrete scattering around him. Then the ceiling gave out and the dining room table came crashing down onto the open area below it.

Daryl cursed, slamming back against the door and ducked as he came under a rain of gunfire from the stars. He used the shelf to take most of the heat and slammed the door shut, before he looked back at the table. Rick was still firing at the outside of the door. Daryl could feel heat emanating from it and swore to God if Rick had a Goddamn flamethrower he was going to have to call bullshit on that because he wasn't allowed a flamethrower and _why would a spy need a fucking flamethrower?_

"'I like it clean', my ass," Daryl muttered, before he took a running start and ran up the angled slope of the dining room table and jumped for the broken ceiling. His shoulder screamed in protest and he gritted his teeth, managing to kick his way up to the point where he could get one arm over the edge.

He managed to haul himself over just as the door to his basement arsenal burst open with a heavy thud, flames roaring around it. They died out and Daryl turned to see Rick stepping into the basement, his eyes narrowed as he looked around. He spied Daryl in the hole in the ceiling and huffed, his expression impressed.

Daryl gave him a one-fingered salute and fired at him with the shotgun. Rick ducked down, hissing when the ricochet from the blast sent pellets of dust slicing into his arms and chest, but he walked away with no trouble. Daryl hurried to get to his feet and get away from the open space of the dining room. He was a better shot than Rick, but if he let Rick get to him and start a physical fight he knew he would lose. Rick sparred with Shane almost every Goddamn day and he was fast and lethal and he'd been doing this upwards of ten years. And with Daryl's injured shoulder, he didn't stand a fucking chance.

He sensed movement to his left and turned and fired, growling when he merely made a mess of the shelf of cookbooks and old roadmaps that had been stacked up next to the fridge. He strode into the kitchen and heard a noise behind him, he turned and grabbed at the fridge handle, pulling the door open to give him cover as Rick fired at him again with a machine gun. He growled, yanking the fridge over so that he covered most of his back, and fled out through the living room.

Rick caught him, spinning him around and sending him flying to the floor. Rick was on him in a heartbeat, his nails in Daryl's wrists to keep him down as Daryl struggled as best he could, pinned under Rick's weight. But Rick was a master at keeping an opponent down once he got them there. Daryl was breathing hard, adrenaline making him dizzy.

"Daryl," Rick said, his voice thready and weak. Daryl gasped when he felt Rick's erection rubbing at his ass through their clothes. His body let out an involuntary shudder and he hated how turned on knowing _Rick_ was turned on made him. How often had his husband done this, fighting and fucking just like he'd said, getting off on the thrill of it?

He swallowed, his mouth dry. "You let go of even one hand I'll strangle you," he promised, and didn't miss how Rick shuddered above him, growling low in his chest.

"I don't think I've ever been more attracted to you in my life," he confessed, and Daryl grit his teeth and twisted his hand, digging his nails into Rick's palm as tightly as he could. Rick hissed and tightened his grip but his legs moved and it was enough for Daryl to kick at his knee and scramble out from under him.

He jumped the hole in the dining room floor and spun around the bannister, headed up the stairs.

He paused at the top, waiting, his breath unsteady and heavy. Rick came around the corner and Daryl fired at him with his own submachine gun, tearing up a hole in the floor and Rick flinched back but Daryl's eyes widened and he looked up when he saw that one of the bullet holes in the wall was ringed with blood.

He heard Rick gasping, tearing at his clothes, undoubtedly to make something to stop the bleeding or close off whatever was injured. Daryl didn't see where he hit. Cautiously he set the gun down. "You still alive, baby?" he called, frowning when he got no answer from Rick.

He slowly got to his feet, wincing when his shoulder protested the abuse of the guns, and crept down the stairs. He heard a low groan of pain and bit his lip, because yeah, they were trying to kill each other but Rick wasn't meant to _die_.

He followed the trail of blood to the kitchen and saw Rick standing in the opposite door. He smelled gas.

Rick grinned at him, his hands bloody. He opened a pack of matches and lit one, setting the rest on fire, and threw it onto the stove which Daryl could see had been turned on but not lit. He let out a low curse and jumped back as the gas ignited into an explosion, sending him slamming back against the wall separating the opening foyer and the dining room.

He groaned, his head reeling, his ears ringing, and struggled when he felt hands grabbing him. It was Rick, and Rick threw him onto the ground on his back, straddling his stomach. Daryl threw a punch but he was uncoordinated and sloppy and Rick hit him right back.

Daryl growled, grabbing one of his knives from his jeans and slicing wildly at Rick. He caught him across the chest, drawing a shallow line of blood. In answer Rick punched him in the shoulder, right above the gunshot wound and it hurt so badly that it brought tears to Daryl's eyes.

"I don't want to do this," Rick said, panting loudly, as he brought his fist back and slammed it against Daryl's shoulder again. Daryl cried out and switched the grip on his knife, slamming it into Rick's arm. Rick growled, grabbing at his injured arm and Daryl kicked him off, crawling out from under him so he was on his hands and knees. Rick pulled the knife out, hissing in pain, and threw it to one side. He got to his feet and stalked towards Daryl.

Daryl lifted his shotgun and tried to take aim, but his shoulder wouldn't respond and Rick kicked it away so that he went skidding across the floor. He tore the other from Daryl's shoulder and threw it away as well so that neither of them had any weapons anymore – only Rick still had his Colt, snugly sitting on a holster on his thigh.

"Get up," Rick hissed, just far enough away from Daryl that Daryl couldn't lunge for him. Daryl looked up at him, his neck and face aching from Rick's blows. Daryl had shot him in the leg, grazing his thigh it looked like. His arm was bleeding heavily, one side of his face looked badly bruised and Daryl assumed he'd gotten injured during the explosion.

He clenched his fist and growled at Daryl. "Get. _Up_ ," he demanded, and Daryl heaved in a breath, struggling to get to his feet. He lunged for Rick and Rick parried him, driving his fist into Daryl's ribs. Daryl kicked him back and grabbed at him, using the advantage that Rick had clothes to grab and twist, and threw him against a wall, shattering a glass shelf. He heaved a breath and it ended in a ragged cough. He stumbled to the stairs, one hand half-raised to keep Rick's blows at bay, and had to rely on the bannister to keep him upright.

Rick stared at him for a moment. "I'm not supposed to win," he said. Daryl blinked at him. His ears were still ringing from the explosion and the beating. "Damn it, Daryl, _fight me_."

Daryl shook his head. "I can't," he said weakly. He fell to his knees, still clinging to the bannister, before he let that go and settled on his back on the stairs, blinking up at the ceiling. "'M sorry, Rick. I can't kill you."

Rick let out a sound like a wounded animal, looking away and letting his breath go in a shaky exhale. "Then what…what am I gonna do?" he asked, looking back at Daryl. "I can't –."

Daryl closed his eyes, and then opened them when he heard Rick pulling back the hammer on his gun. He was holding it in a shaking hand, his eyes bright with tears. "I can't just walk away," he said through gritted teeth. Daryl nodded, pressing his lips together, and knelt up so that his forehead was pressed against the muzzle of Rick's gun.

"It's okay," he said quietly.

Rick let out another low sound and then Daryl opened his eyes to see Rick pulling the gun away. He fell to his knees in front of Daryl and let the gun skid to one side away from both of them. His hands went to Daryl's face and he held him, stealing his lips in a sudden kiss.

Daryl gasped, every part of him aching, shaking at the thought that he had been literally two seconds, one gentle squeeze, one decision away from losing his life to the man he loved. He clung to Rick's shredded, bloody clothing. His face hurt from Rick's blows but this was the most passion he'd gotten from Rick in months and he was thirsty for it like a dying plant in the desert when rain finally comes along.

"Rick," he moaned, wincing again when Rick traced reverent, hot hands down his shoulders and his chest. Those hands, with bruised and bloodied knuckles, were capable of such pain and destruction and mere moment ago they'd been set to rip Daryl apart but now they touched him as though he was made of glass.

He pulled back after a moment, shaking finely. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I love you," Rick said in answer, gently squeezing the back of Daryl's neck. "And _nothing_ is going to take you away from me."

Daryl swallowed hard, already nodding when Rick pulled him in for another kiss. He melted against Rick, clinging to his ruined clothes, and then Rick pulled him away from the stairs and laid him out on the floor, which was littered with shattered glass and concrete dust. Daryl hissed when his bare back touched the cool, gritty surface, but then Rick was covering him and consuming him, kissing hot and wet down Daryl's exposed neck and shoulder, his hands skating up Daryl's arms and grabbing onto his wrists to hold them down.

Daryl's heart was racing, adrenaline and lust mixing together into something heady that threatened to melt him from the inside out before they even got started. He rutted up against his husband, groaning as his sore body protested the movements, and Rick lifted his head to stare at him.

Daryl licked his lips, caught in Rick's eyes. "What're you doin', Rick?" he asked lowly, and Rick blinked and shook his head slowly as though to clear it. He reared up, petting down Daryl's sweaty, dirty chest. Daryl bit his lower lip as Rick tore at his belt and jeans, the fabric too weak to resist Rick's strong hands, and exposed Daryl's hardening cock.

Rick crawled back up Daryl's body and kissed him again, drawing a moan out of him. Rick didn't touch him and part of Rick was grateful for that, because who knew what kind of shit was on his hands right now around such a sensitive area, but his body was starting to burn with something that had been denied for far too long and Daryl _needed_.

"Put your hands in my hair," Rick said, and Daryl obeyed. Then, he leaned back and pulled Daryl's thighs apart so that he could put his shoulders under them, and lowered his mouth to Daryl's cock.

Daryl let out a low, hungry sound, his hands tightening in Rick's hair just as he knew Rick assumed they would. Or maybe Rick just wanted to know where his hands were, just in case. The thought made him smirk, but then Rick circled the head of his cock with his tongue and most coherent thought flew out of the window that wasn't some mess of ' _Rick'_ and ' _Fuck yes_ ' and _'Please, more_ '.

He rolled his hips up, forcing Rick to take more of his cock, and growled lowly in pleasure when he felt the man's throat open up to take more of him. Rick's hands smoothed out over Daryl's stomach, holding on but not restricting, as Daryl continued to thrust lazily in and out of Rick's mouth, watching his lips turn pink and tender and reflexive tears well up at the corners of his eyes.

"Rick," Daryl warned, breathless, his cheeks and chest red with arousal. Rick tilted his head, eyes flashing up to meet Daryl's, before he closed them and let out a little hum. His lips tightened around Daryl's shaft, mouth slowly dragging up and Daryl let out a soft, breathless whimper, his thighs trembling and his stomach clenching under Rick's hands as he felt his orgasm sweeping through him. His shoulders tensed and went hot with pain, his spine felt tight and he was unable to stop the shivery jerks of his hips and thighs as he tried to thrust as deep into Rick's mouth as he could.

Rick swallowed all of him, wet sucking sounds the only thing breaking the otherwise quiet house. Daryl felt dizzy from how hard his orgasm had hit him and he breathed out heavily, trembling. Rick pulled off of him and prowled up his body, kissing his slack mouth hard.

Daryl whined, pushing against Rick so that he could move. He crawled up the stairs and laid against them, his uninjured shoulder braced against the third one up, his knees on the ground. He reached back and grabbed Rick's arm and forced the man over him, closing his eyes when Rick's erection rubbed against his ass underneath his jeans.

Rick let out a low snarl of desire. Daryl could feel his injured thigh shaking as he rutted desperately against Daryl's exposed, tender skin. Rick's hands slid up Daryl's arms, down his sweaty back, and then they briefly left Daryl's body and Daryl heard him taking off the gun belt where his holster sat, then the rustling of clothing that meant he was shedding his shirt and pushing his jeans down to his thighs.

Daryl let out a low whine when he felt Rick's cock, wet at the head and smearing across his skin, rut between his thighs. He pushed them closer together to give some semblance of pressure and heat and Rick groaned, covering his body and kissing at Daryl's uninjured shoulder.

"I love you," Rick said, and Daryl whined and angled his hips so that Rick wasn't fucking between his thighs anymore but across the small of his back. Every now and again Rick would pull back just far enough that the head of his cock would catch on Daryl's hole and Daryl wondered if he would just try and fuck him dry – seemed like he was more than happy to before – but Rick never tried. Instead he placed gentle, sweet kisses to Daryl's shoulders and neck and nuzzled his hair and held Daryl's fingers between his own as though desperate to touch every part of Daryl that he could.

Daryl closed his eyes. "Love you too," he said, shivering as Rick continued to rut against him. He was sure it didn't feel nearly as good as Rick's mouth had on Daryl but Rick seemed perfectly content to grind against him, slowly marking Daryl up with his precome and his sweat.

"They're gonna come for us, baby," Rick growled, pushing a little bit harder against Daryl's hips. His thigh must be aching like a bitch and they were both sore and worn out but Rick didn't seem to give a shit about any of them. Daryl tightened his fingers in Rick's and lifted one of their hands to his mouth.

"Let 'em," Daryl said, his lips against Rick's knuckles, and Rick shuddered, letting out a low groan. "I'll kill anyone tries to go after you."

"They're not taking you away from me," Rick said, as though in affirmation. He thrust a little more harshly against Daryl's skin, his cock twitching and leaking. Everywhere Rick was touching him felt like an open flame. "They're _not_. Fuckin' _kill_ 'em all for tryin'."

Daryl let out a low growl of agreement. It didn't fucking matter what they did – he'd put a bullet in anyone's eye who even looked at Rick wrong. And he felt, in the words and the way Rick was moving so desperately against him, that the feeling was mutual. _This_ was what he wanted, what he had resigned himself to never getting. Passion, excitement, _lust_. He needed Rick – all facets of him, controlling and passive and angry and scared. He knew Rick could handle himself, could watch Daryl's back if he needed. He could trust and love and rely on his partner for anything because Rick was perfectly capable of handling it.

He turned his head and slammed their hands against the stairs, shoulder aching at the action, and looked back so that he could see Rick's face. "Kiss me," he demanded, and Rick whined and nodded, surging forward and pressing Daryl against the stairs as their lips met. Daryl pulled one of Rick's hands with his to knot in his husband's hair, tugging it harshly, and Rick trembled behind him. Daryl bit his lower lip, body shaking with the strain of bearing Rick's weight as he felt Rick finally go still. A shudder ran through both of them and then Rick was coming with a low groan against Daryl's mouth, spilling hot and wet over his tender, warm skin.

His come ran down Daryl's sides hotter than fresh blood from a wound and dripped onto the floor and Daryl shivered, feeling it trickle down between his ass and over his balls as well. It had been a long time for both of them and Daryl was sure Rick's orgasm had been as powerful as his.

Rick collapsed over him and Daryl sank down to the ground, turning so that he was sitting on the bottom step, Rick one step above him. He turned and pillowed his head on Rick's thigh and heaved a sigh. He let out a soft rumble of pleasure as he felt one of Rick's hands go to his hair, petting the sweat and concrete dust out from it.

Daryl reached into his pocket for his phone as he felt the chime go off. He frowned down at it and opened it to his assignments. He could feel Rick looking over his shoulder.

He opened the assignment that had been for Rick and typed 'No', sending it without another thought. A few moments later his phone chimed again.

_NMA._

He looked up at Rick, who was regarding him with solemn eyes. "Open it," he said.

Daryl sighed and looked back at his phone and opened the text.

_New Mass Assignment. Daryl Dixon & Rick Grimes. $1mil for each, $3mil if both are caught alive. Considered extremely dangerous. Use of any and all force is authorized._

Daryl smirked when Rick's phone went off in his jeans and he shifted his weight, sliding them completely off so that he could grab his phone. "Daryl Dixon, senior operative for the Kingdom, wanted dead. Seven-fifty reward," he said, and Daryl frowned before he realized that that was the older order, sent to only Rick.

Rick swiped to the next one. "All operatives assigned to eliminate Daryl Dixon, senior operative for the Kingdom. All operatives assigned to eliminate Rick Grimes, former head assassin of the Saviors Network. Officially labelled 'Traitor' as of 0819."

"Damn, these guys work fast."

Rick nodded. "I knew I wouldn't be able to just walk away," he said, setting his phone down. His other hand was still petting through Daryl's hair. "Negan wouldn't let me. Not after I signed on with him. I knew that. I'm so sorry, Daryl – I thought I could protect you."

Daryl frowned. "Kingdom's small, we go far enough away they won't fuck with us anymore." He looked up at Rick. "Why don't we just kill Negan?"

Rick blinked, looking at him. "We can't just _kill Negan_ ," he said.

"Why not?" Daryl asked.

"Because we -." Rick shook his head, huffing a small laugh. "I couldn't do it alone."

"Well…" Daryl reached up and took Rick's free hand, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently. "Y'ain't alone anymore."

Rick looked at their joined hands, considering this for a moment, before his expression shifted into a slow smile of anticipation. His eyes gleamed and Daryl was reminded of the first time he'd ever seen Rick, proud and fine in the Bolivian sun. Some part of Daryl must have sensed the killer, the danger in him even then, because looking at him now he could see no difference, no strain that the years and the boredom had taken.

Rick raised their joined hands and kissed Daryl's palm. "You're right," he finally said. "I'm not alone anymore."


End file.
